First Impressions
by Sweet Shiva
Summary: It had started when Charles had gotten pulled over, and he wasn't too sure where it was going to end.


First Impressions:

Chapter One:

The wind blew up loose dirt across the expanse of the entire country side, fogging the air with particles of dust, inches of it covering any surface it came across. Sign posts and foliage rattled beneath the heavy hand of the wind, battered until they toppled into the streets, and trees and wild brush were stripped of greenery.

Charles gripped the stirring wheel of his beat up Ford, eyeing the traffic nervously as he sped down the freeway, determined to make it to Harvard before 8 o'clock that morning. The air conditioning was blasting, and he could already feel the heat creeping into the morning air before the day even started. Sweat began to collect around his temples, soaked up by chestnut brown hair that clung to his forehead. He shifted against the leather of the driver's seat, itching to get to the school, and watched the speedometer spike past the eighty mile mark.

Then, before he could process the cop car swooping behind him, sirens were blaring, and lights flashed in the rearview mirror, reflecting painfully into his bright, blue eyes.

'You've got to be bloody well kidding me,' Charles thought with a grimace, slowly winding down on the shoulder of the road, coming to a complete stop, and thumping his head against the headrest. He heaved a sigh at the sight of the officer striding to the driver's door, and pumped the handle on the door to manually roll down the window.

"Is there a problem, officer?" He asked, forcing out what he hoped was a pleasant tone.

"You were going a little fast, there," the cop said, tone dripping with what Charles quickly identified as boredom. "Clocked you at eighty, I need your driver's license and registration."

Charles fumbled with his wallet, and then cracked open the dashboard to retrieve the documents, finger's brushing against the officer's own callused digits, and he managed to repress the urge to shove the paper's at the man, manners be damned. Admittedly, he was a very _nice _looking man, but still the jerk that might write him a ticket. The cop gave him a smile, full of teeth, as if he could read exactly what Charles was thinking, and idly made his way back to the police car.

The professor sighed, defeated as the digital clock announced that it was eight, and the previously chipper man was once again late for his office hours. His eyes flickered back to the cop, who was involved with something at the flashing car.

'Any day would be great,' Charles thought, flicking through the stations on the radio for the sake of doing something opposed to waiting, and nearly jumped out of his seat as his eyes flickered to the window, and the officer was there, leaning his forearm against the hood of the car and peering in as if patiently waiting to gain Charles attention. Charles felt his heart rate triple, face flushed as blood rose to color his cheeks, hyperaware of the proximity between the two.

"You've got a clean record," the man in uniform said, but the words floated over Charles' head as he soaked in the handsome, chiseled features of the officer's face; the light pattern of freckles splashed across the bridge of his nose, the full lips that were surrounded by a light five o'clock shadow, and piercing grey eyes that pinned Charles to the leather upholstery of the driver's seat. The man went on, oblivious to Charles flustered gaping. "So I'm going to let you off with a warning."

The man handed the documents and his license back, and if Charles didn't know any better, carefully caressed the professor's finger tips. Charles jerked a nod, a swell of relief flooding through his system.

"Thank you," he said, shifting in his seat, eager to get back on the freeway.

The officer smirked, a small quirk at the corner of his lips. "Have a nice day, Mr. Xavier."

It wasn't until the man had left, and Charles was shoving his license into his pocket that he saw the note that had been slipped between his license and the registration papers.

Erik Lensherr:

555-3251

Call me.

A flush of color coated the Professor's cheeks, and he stared at the cop car that swooped past his beat up Ford, and down the valley. Well, it certainly made up for the almost ticket, Charles though idly, putting his car in drive, before shooting down the strip of asphalt that led him closer to work, unaware of just how vital that piece of paper would be.

…

A/N: So… I don't know where this came from, or whether I will pursue it. But I decided to post it in hopes of giving myself the incentive, hope it's not too weird.


End file.
